Take Me Home
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Napoleon goes home one last time to say good-bye.  Reposted from an early date.  The end of the Vermont Series.  Warnings:  death, biogtry, and accepting the inevitable


Illya Kuryakin lounged back on one of the few seats in the large utility room and watched the mass of dancing bodies. It didn't surprise him that his partner was in the thick of it. The man loved to dance; that was a certainty.

He had to hand it to Section Five. They knew how to throw a helluva party. It seemed to him that ever since they'd lost Alexander Waverly a few years ago, the parties had grown in both number and popularity. Of course, it didn't hurt that the new Number One Section One liked to party down as much as anyone did.

It was still hard for him to realize so much time had passed since the first time he'd walked through Del Floria's and into headquarters. And then he tried to get out of bed. Years of physical abuse as an agent had taken their toll, but it was the price that he paid for what he did. He didn't care for the pain, but it was just part of his life now and he accepted it in much the same fashion as Napoleon begrudgingly accepted his graying hair.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and glanced up at his partner…well, ex-partner, but he never thought of him that way. He and Napoleon had been out of the field for years now, but they still maintained a close friendship, possibly even more so. Despite the fact that they no longer worked in the same section, they saw each other even more now that they weren't constantly dashing off to opposite ends of the world. There was time to spend on quiet evenings of chess and camaraderie.

"Did you finally exhaust yourself?" he asked as Napoleon sank gratefully into a chair beside him.

"Well, you realize I'd never admit to it voluntarily." Napoleon ran a hand over his hair, patting it back into place and dabbed at the perspiration on his brow with his handkerchief. "These new dances are …invigorating. You should try it."

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. It wanted to be in bed an hour ago." Illya fell silent as they watched the younger agents dancing. It actually looked more well coordinated fight moves as opposed to the sort of dancing he grew up with. He vaguely recognized the music. One of his lab techs has a passion for this group…something Swedish, he thought. ..Abby something…

April walked up to them, her face flushed. She held a hand out to Illya.

"Dance with me, Illya, please? You're the only one I haven't danced with tonight."

He considered refusing for a moment, but it was her field retirement party. Her brown eyes were so hopeful. He sighed and got to his feet, ignoring the stab of protesting pain that shot down one leg. "How can I deny you anything, April? I'll do my best to keep up."

"Well, I don't know, I keep asking, but…" She laughed, leading him out onto the dance floor. He wasn't familiar with the song, but after a moment, he was able to pick up the tempo. And April was so easy to lead. She moved in his arms like they'd practiced this dance for hours.

Then abruptly the tempo of the music shifted to something faster, more hard hitting and Illya had just enough time to glance accusingly over at the stereo unit where Napoleon and Mark stood, both grinning like maniacs. The music was a bit fast for his taste, but he never backed down from a challenge, which was most certainly what this was. So he pushed the thought of the observing crowd out of his mind and he danced, letting the music dictate his movements. He'd pay for this tomorrow, but tonight, he'd leave April with a memory or two.

The song ended and the crowd was generous with their applause. April was giddy as they approached Mark, who was still beaming at his retiring partner. The fact that all four of them had made it alive out of the field was a minor accomplishment on its own and Illya didn't resent the man his fun.

"What happened to Napoleon? I'll wager that," Illya nodded to the phonograph as he brushed his hair back off his forehead. "…was all his idea."

"Oh, there was a phone call for him."

That struck Illya as odd. Burke, Napoleon's second in command, was handling the fort tonight and he was every bit as capable as Napoleon was. If he'd called his boss in, that meant big trouble. Illya walked back across to the room to the phone, but Napoleon was nowhere to be seen.

Nearby, a Section Two agent was helping herself to some punch and Illya turned to her. "Have you seen Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir." She stopped just this side of saluting. After all these years, he still had that effect on people. "He took a phone call and went back to his office. He said he needed some air."

Illya followed the familiar path to Mr. Waverly's old office. He still thought of it that way, never as Napoleon's. It was funny how the mind dealt with things, or rather avoided dealing with things. By thinking Waverly was still in charge, it was always easy for a moment to forget about the marching on of time.

He didn't bother to knock, the door slid open at his approach and he saw Napoleon staring out the window, one of the few windows the building actually had. Outside, New York plowed on relentlessly, never sleeping, never tiring, just like their enemies. For twenty years he and Napoleon fought the good fight, now younger men and women took up the gauntlet, but their task was no easier, no more palatable. Their enemies were more sophisticated and Illya wondered if Napoleon had just sent agents out to possibly meet their death.

Even before he was halfway to his partner, Illya knew Napoleon was aware of his presence. It was something they shared, a sense of when the other was close at hand. It had been a great comfort to him as an agent and was something he cherished even more now.

He walked up behind Napoleon and placed a hand on his shoulder. Napoleon glanced over at him, his eyes refocusing.

"What's wrong, Napoleon? Who was on the phone? Is there trouble?"

"My sister. It's my mom…they just called in a priest for last rites." The voice was slow, measured, hurting.

"Napoleon, I am sorry," Illya whispered and gave the still powerful shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm so very sorry."

Napoleon abruptly turned and wrapped his arms about him and Illya just held on, neither speaking nor moving, letting Napoleon have his moment. He stood quietly and kept his breathing calm in an attempt to convey it back to his friend. He felt awkward in the embrace, but obviously, this was something Napoleon needed and he'd never denied his friend anything he could provide. Another man would have found himself splayed out on the carpet, but Illya permitted this as he did Napoleon so many other freedoms.

Napoleon pulled away as if suddenly embarrassed by his lapse of control. "I need to go home."

"I understand. Burke is more than capable of handling things," Illya said as Napoleon released him. As Napoleon began to walk away, Illya added, "If you'd prefer, Napoleon, you do not have to make this journey alone."

"You'd come with me?"

"Your mother is an exceptional woman, Napoleon, and I'd be a very poor friend indeed to put you through like this alone…again."

"Last time wasn't your fault."

"I know, but I'm not now…incapacitated. I'll make the arrangements here. You go home and pack."

Napoleon's voice stopped him. "Illya, thanks."

"It's what partners do, Napoleon."

"Not all partners…"

"Then it's what friends do, and you're welcome."

It had taken some sweet talk to convince Section Three that Napoleon didn't need an official escort back to Vermont. Thankfully, Illya was still a qualified marksman and was armed, so Napoleon was finally able to convince them that he'd be fine with his ex-partner at his back.

He watched the blond out of the corner of his eye. The depth of their friendship never ceased to amaze him. No matter what, Illya was always there, always willing and ready to offer his help and support.

When Napoleon lost his father, it had been out of the blue. His dad had suffered a heart attack and then a stroke, but his recovery seemed to be going well when he just stopped. Even prepared for it, the trip had been hard. It was made harder still with Illya in a coma in serious condition. Napoleon didn't want to admit it, but he was truly torn between his family and his friend, wanting to be in two places at once. He knew he needed to be there for his mother, to help with both the legal and emotional burdens placed upon her. Yet his mind kept going back to the hospital bed where his partner lay so quietly, dependent upon a dozen machines to keep him going until he made up his mind whether to live or die.

Every time the phone rang, Napoleon jumped, until he was nothing more than a bundle of nerves. And his mother, even through her own pain and loss, comforted him as best she could until the call had finally come from New York that Illya was awake and aware. Unashamed, Napoleon had finally released all the emotions he'd kept controlled and at Joyce's grave, he sobbed and grieved over what he'd lost and celebrated what he still had.

The car slowed slightly as they approached the outskirts of Chelsea. "This place never changes," Illya said, shaking his head. "I haven't been here in a dozen years and it's still the same. I swear that car was parked there the last time I drove in."

"The last time you came with me, you slept the whole way."

"I was being facetious, Napoleon."

"I know." It was hard to make out details, but Napoleon was inclined to agree with Illya. Nothing much did ever change in Chelsea. That's why he'd never move back here. The same mind numbing sameness of one day followed by the next was too much for Napoleon to even bear thinking about.

Napoleon knew Illya didn't need directions to the farmhouse where Napoleon had been born. The blond knew the way as well as he did the path to his own apartment, negotiating the tight curves and sudden dips easily. Then abruptly, they were upon the farm, the barn appearing to the right, looming two stories over the road. To the left were various sheds that housed farm equipment, an old chicken coop and a long empty dog kennel. Illya abruptly braked and pulled into a long driveway. In days past, it would have been crammed with cars, but now it stood strangely empty.

Illya pulled up across from the porch just as the kitchen door opened and a woman stepped out. For a moment, Napoleon swore it was his mother and then he realized he was looking at his sister, Josephine. How old she looked.

He climbed from the car and went to Josie. "Oh, Napoleon, you made it!" She threw her arm around him, hugging him tightly. "Thank God you're here." She kissed him and hugged him again. "Then who's…" She stopped and gasped as Illya climbed from the car.

"Illya?" Josie's voice hitched, taking on an odd edge to it. "You're alive? After Napoleon's last visit, I thought…we thought… you were…dead."

"Dead, why?" Illya looked from Josie to Napoleon and back.

"Napoleon…he said… he was so…and then he never mentioned… and we thought it was because…"

"How is she?" Napoleon interrupted, nodding to the house.

"She's rallied a bit. The doctors seem to think that she was waiting for you to come home." Josie pulled the heavy brown cardigan closer around her. "Part of me couldn't wait for you to get here; another part was hoping you never would. That's so selfish of me, wanting Mama to suffer for my own…"

Napoleon kissed her forehead gently. "No, it's just being human, Josie."

Illya interrupted. "Napoleon, go to her, I'll get the suitcases."

"Illya, you know where you're going?" Josie watched as he started to walk back to the car.

"I'm frequently told where to go. Yes, I can find the way."

Napoleon started to walk with her up the porch stairs as Illya returned to their sedan. "He's moving a little slower, isn't he?" he heard Josie ask.

"Some days are worse than others, but he manages and doesn't complain…too much," Napoleon said, brushing Josie's hair back from her tired eyes. "Ave you gotten any sleep?"

"Some, here and there. It'll be better now that you're home. I wasn't expecting Illya."

"That was obvious. What made you think he was dead?"

"You stopped talking about him, completely. Mama said it was better if we just let go, that you were mourning."

It had been a crazy time when he'd returned to UCNLE as Waverly had just been taken seriously ill and Napoleon found himself thrust into the role of Section One Number One. In the months that followed, it had been all he could do to remember to swallow, much less call home. What little free time he had, he spent with Illya first at the hospital and then at the rehab facility.

"Did you have to pack rocks?" Illya muttered as he joined them. "You over pack more than anyone I've ever known."

Josie laughed softly. "You never change, do you? You're still giving him a bad time."

"Imagine the trouble I would be in if I were giving him a good time." Josie's cheeks pinked and Illya grinned. "That's better. Like your brother, a smile best fits you."

Illya stretched out on the bed, surprised at how familiar it felt. It had been years since he'd visited here, yet everything was practically undisturbed. The kitchen remained a hodgepodge of just about everything known to modern man. The same coats, the same boots, nothing had moved, he'd practically be willing to bet his next paycheck on it. The living room was the same assortment of mismatched bits of furniture he'd always known. True to form, whenever something new was brought in, the old bits were shoved aside. It was going to take a month to clear just the living room out. He didn't envy Napoleon the task.

He'd immediately gone upstairs, determined to give Napoleon some private time with his mother and sister and had instinctively headed for Napoleon's bedroom. They had always bunked together on previous visits and Illya was disinclined to stop that practice. It had been a long time since he'd shared a bed with Napoleon and the truth of the matter was that he missed it. He'd grown up sleeping in a crowded bed of siblings and frequently missed the comfort of not waking up alone. In his line of work, it wasn't practical to fall asleep with someone else in bed, unless it was someone you could trust explicitly. For Illya, that was only his partner. However, it was not something that you could just casually bring up, although Illya half expected Napoleon would have jumped at the chance. No, when their field days ended, so did their bunking together.

Now, he felt that his partner was going to need him close more than ever. He rolled off the bed to walk over to a window and stare out into the dark. He loved this view, day or night. He knew from memory that there was a small brook that ran behind the house, a narrow footbridge spanning it from this side to the next lot where Josie and her family lived. Reeds and long grasses would clog the steam in the summer; now in the fall, everything was brown and dried up, ready to go into hiding from the long New England winter.

It was hard to remember that so much time had passed since that very first visit, Napoleon practically dragging him here for Christmas, thrusting him upon his parents, who, in turn, welcomed him into their bosom without reservation. It was a comfort to know he at least had Napoleon's family to fall back on when old age had claimed his own parents. The man really did have all the luck.

At the sound of the bedroom door opening, Illya glanced over and regretted his last thought. Illya's parents passed without any great remorse from him; he was sure his passing would have met with an equal reaction. As a family, the Kuryakins could not brag at being tight knitted. Napoleon, on the other hand, was a well loved son who cherished his parents and was preparing to say good bye to his favorite. Illya didn't envy him the days ahead and he was determined to offer Napoleon as much comfort as he could.

Wordless, his partner simply moved to him and Illya held him, continuing to stare out into the darkness, waiting for Napoleon to make a sign. At the half-suppressed sigh, Illya ventured, "You know, Napoleon, it's no sign of weakness to cry."

"I know, but you cry at Kodak commercials." Napoleon broke the embrace and took a few steps away towards his suitcase.

"I do not," Illya muttered. "That was only once and I was taken…unawares. How is she?"

"Lucid, happy I'm here…tired."

"Sounds a fair description of you. You're exhausted. I think it would behoove you to get some rest as well."

Despite the fatigue, Napoleon was awake again two hours later, restless. The curtains at the window didn't block the light of the full moon from streaming in and it bathed the room in an eerie bluish glow.

Illya murmured in his sleep and rolled over, boneless. It always amazed Napoleon how much space someone as compact as Illya could take up. Napoleon slid from the bed and padded softly to the window, the wooden floor cold beneath his feet. He'd spent eighteen years looking out over the achingly familiar landscape and over twenty trying to escape its memory.

And now his mom would soon be gone. She'd been a rock for him during that time of his father's death, pushing aside even her own sorrow and loss to comfort her son when he'd finally admitted the truth of his depression to her. The thought of never having that opportunity again make his throat clutch and his heart pound and yet he knew that she'd had a full and happy, if hard, life. And at least he had the satisfaction of knowing she wouldn't be standing over his grave crying. It had been a fear of his for so many years. Once his father had taken him aside and prefaced his talk with "It's a sad, sad thing for a man to have to bury his children." Now, at least, that wouldn't be a problem.

Napoleon shivered in the coolness of the room. Since they were the only ones upstairs, the furnace hadn't been started and the nights were getting cold. Reluctantly he moved back to the bed and as he approached, Illya held the covers up for him. Napoleon resumed his place.

"Are you all right?"

"No, but I will be."

Illya stirred, wincing at the pain that radiated through his body. It took him a moment and then he remembered. The combination of the long drive, the party and sleeping on an overly soft mattress took its pound of flesh from him. He ached from his teeth down to his ankles. If he was home, he'd stretch out on the floor and force himself through a series of the PT exercises.

Instead, not bothering to worry about whether or not he'd wake Napoleon, Illya grappled his way clear of the sheets and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower and some painkillers took care of the ache in his body and helped to wake him up more. Now if he could rustle up some coffee, he'd feel almost human.

He threw on some jeans, socks, and a loose black shirt before heading downstairs. It was eerie for the farmhouse to be so quiet. It was past nine and sunlight steamed through the widows, illuminating dust motes as they danced in his passing.

The last time he'd been here, it had been an insane asylum of noise and confusion. Now it was like it was a museum display, observed, but moved around as opposed to through. Illya stopped, remembering the times he'd stretched out on that floor, playing board games with Napoleon's nieces and nephews, even wrestling with his partner a time or two before Katherine stepped in armed with a wooden spoon and deadly aim. Of eating pizza and drinking beer as Napoleon explained the nuances of televised baseball to him – something even more boring than the actual thing, if such a thing was possible.

He glanced at the curtained doorway that led to Katherine's bedroom and shook his head. No, he needed coffee before taking that step. He'd never really looked at the kitchen before, but years of quiet observation gave him most of what he needed. Within minutes, he'd found the coffee pot and coffee and started it brewing. A quick check of the refrigerator told him he could make breakfast, but would need to shop before dinner, unless they wanted to have scrambled eggs…again.

A head poked out of the bedroom's curtained entrance and dark eyes studied him. "And you might be?"

"Illya Kuryakin. And you?"

"The night nurse. You're Napoleon's partner?"

"Yes." He held up a cup. "Would you like some coffee?"

"I'd kill for some. Mrs. Solo talked about you a lot last night. I thought she was delusional, but here you are. Did you really have a car blow up on you?"

Illya poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her before holding up two fingers. "Twice. You Vermonters have long memories."

She sipped the liquid gratefully and abruptly held out a hand. "I'm sorry. Annie Welch.

Illya nodded to the curtained door way. "Ms. Welch, would you like me to sit with her for awhile?"

"Would you mind? I'd love a shower."

"Not a problem."

Topping off his cup, Illya pushed the curtain aside and walked into the bedroom. It was dim due to the heavy maple trees outside the windows, but the low watt bulb in the nightstand lamp made the room navigable. He set down his cup and picked up a framed photo, holding it close to the light to see it. It was of a young couple, both looking a little uneasy and unsure in their finery. Even then, Illya could see Napoleon's eyes, his smile, and his love in their faces.

"Father was such a handsome man." Illya glanced over at the speaker. The woman held out a hand, twisted and bent with arthritis. "Of course, he wasn't a father then, not quite yet." Illya handed her the photo and she smiled at him. "Welcome home, Illya."

He leaned down to embrace her, compassionately and gently, mindful of arthritic bones. "It's good to be home," he said after a moment. He released her and settled down in a chair beside the bed, as Katherine set the photo aside and shifted slightly. Immediately, Illya was there to help her adjust her position. "It's nice to know he'll have someone to look after him when I'm gone."

"Always."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For years you safeguarded his life; it's nice to know that now you'll be there when I'm gone."

"Amen to that." Illya half turned his head at the familiar voice as Napoleon entered. "What were you talking about?"

"Your favorite topic – you," Illya said.

"Always an excellent choice."

"I thought you would approve. Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Napoleon, does he need help?" He heard Katherine ask amid the rustle of bedclothes. Trust the woman, on death's door to try to get out of bed and wait on them.

"He's fine, Mom. If there's one thing you can count on with Illya, it's him being able to master just about any situation and make it bend to his will."

Napoleon held his mother's hand, listening as her breathing evened out, telling him that she'd drifted back to sleep. Picking up Illya's now empty coffee cup, he stood gingerly and walked from the bedroom, purposefully blocking as many memories from his mind as he could. He was plagued with memories here, every square inch made him think of something else. He slipped into the kitchen and immediately his mind switched gears at the sight of his partner. It made Napoleon realize that he was going to get through this.

"Did you finally manage to get some sleep?" Illya asked at his partner's approach.

"I would have if you hadn't taken up all the bed." Napoleon poured himself some more coffee and studied Illya's face. There were faint, almost invisible lines spider webbing around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. It reminded Napoleon that neither of them were the men they used to be. "How about you? That bed must have been hell on your back. You probably would have been better sleeping in the floor."

"That's why they make pain killers, Napoleon. I'm fine."

"You'd say that after being dragged half a mile over cactus." He sipped carefully at the coffee. "Illya, I'm glad you're here."

"Where else would I be, Napoleon?" Illya handed him a loaf of bread. "Why don't you make some toast?"

The screen door to the kitchen opened and both men glanced over at their visitor.

"Good God, you're both already up," Josie muttered as she entered, pulling off a stretched-out cardigan sweater and tossing it onto a pile. Napoleon couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the chair rumored to be beneath that pile ever let go. She patted her gray-streaked hair in a movement Napoleon had seen his mother make a million times. It really was a daughter's destiny to take after her mother. "I thought you two would still be out for the count."

"Then who would make breakfast?" Napoleon asked from his spot at the counter.

"That's what I was about to do, but I see you've got it under control. How's Mama?"

"She just fell back to sleep. Annie's with her." Napoleon abandoned the toaster to give his sister a quick hug. "She's resting comfortably."

She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and smiled. "I'm glad you're here, big brother." Josie pulled free and walked over to Illya and stared into the pan. "And you. I didn't know you could cook. What is it?"

"A simple frittata. Your brother made fun of my cooking skills one too many times, so I took some classes." Illya had returned his attention back to the pan, but he spoke to Napoleon. "I'd like to finish it in the oven, but I don't think this pan is ovenproof."

"Risk it if you'd like. We can always toss the pan after flooding the kitchen with noxious fumes. For the record, somewhere in here there's a set of cast iron skillets – although you'll probably need to hire a sherpa to find them." Napoleon led his sister to the table. In this kitchen, the table was always set, always ready to serve a meal. "Together, we do okay and I save a bundle on restaurants."

"We?" Josie turned on him. "Napoleon Solo, I know for a fact that you can't even burn toast!"

"He's become quite accomplished at it, really," Illya said, carrying the pot of coffee to the table. "My toaster runs in fear of him every time he walks into my kitchen."

"Funny guy," Napoleon muttered. "I'm getting better."

"Yes, indeed you are. You can burn toast in half the time it used to take you." Illya suddenly sniffed and smiled. "Speaking of such, Napoleon, your toast is burning."

Josie laughed in spite of herself as Napoleon scurried away to rescue the bread. She settled into her usual spot and sipped coffee, watching as Illya cut the frittata into three equal shares and slid them onto a serving plate. Napoleon, in the meantime, had gotten a handle on the toaster and managed to produce several well browned slices.

As was their fashion, both agents ate quietly and quickly while Josie picked at her plate, moving the food from side to side.

"This is really good, Illya." She finally pushed the plate away.

"Impressive, since you haven't tasted it yet." Illya noted, reaching for a jar of jelly.

"Sorry, just don't have much appetite these days."

"Worried about Mom?"

"Pretty much everything." She sighed and poured herself more coffee. "I thought once the kids got older, it would get easier. It just gets different. Winston is almost twenty one and let's just say he's on a path of self discovery that his father isn't very happy about." She held up a hand with her first two fingers extended. "Peace, man."

"Nothing wrong with that message," Napoleon murmured. "The war has everyone on edge."

"Tell me about it," she said, shaking her head. "I had hoped that old age would mellow out Doug a bit. Instead, it's had just the opposite effect." She glanced over at Illya. "Let's just say, he's less than delighted to have a 'Godless Russian' under the roof."

"That's nothing new," Illya said, paused to chew his mouthful of toast. "He's never been a fan of mine."

"He says your people caused our people a lot of grief, with Korea and all. And it's worse now with Vietnam."

"Not half as much as his people caused me." Illya absently rubbed a thigh. It had been his first bullet and he'd never quite forgotten the experience. "Like your brother, I was in the thick of it. We were soldiers. We did what we were told to do."

"He doesn't see it that way. He just sees Cuban missiles and Brezhnev pounding the table."

"And we all know how well that ended." Napoleon sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving his partner. He knew the toll that just being in America had taken from Illya. Estranged from his country and even his own family, disliked and not trusted by his own people and a social outcast here merely for the sake of his birth country. Even within UNCLE, there was dissention. Illya gave everything to the organization and it still wasn't enough for some people. Napoleon had worked hard to remove such prejudice, but still it remained.

"It's worse now that Daddy's gone. He's sort of run rough shod over Mama and just spouts off at everything. Worse, Nicholas is right there with him. Named for a tsar and he's Sovietphobic…is that even a word?"

"Not _per se_," Napoleon said.

"He gets into such fights with his older brother." Josie shook her head sadly. "Winston is definitely in your camp though, Illya."

"Which would be?"

"That people are people and should be treated as such."

"And what about you, sister?" Napoleon posed the question gently. "What camp are you in?"

"I don't know." She glanced over at Illya. "If we went to war with the Soviets, where would you stand?"

Illya looked uneasily at Napoleon and then back to her. "With my people. Good or bad, the USSR is my home."

"So Doug is right. You are a communist."

"No, I am a Russian; there is a difference. It saddens me that you, of all people, can't see that." Illya stood, stiff from having sat for too long. "Excuse me."

Josie watched him walk from the room as Napoleon glared at her. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking."

"Who everybody else? You've known Illya for years. When has he ever,** ever ** made an untoward remark about this country? Do you know his own family won't even talk to him because he's here?" Napoleon broke off and barked a half laugh. "His own siblings didn't tell him his mother passed away for nearly a year because they didn't want to face the possibly that he might show up for the funeral. Just because he followed orders and came to the U.S."

"It was his choice."

"That's where you're right, sister. It was his choice and his willingness to sacrifice everything he had in the hopes that it would lead to a better world. And this is how the likes of you repay him." Napoleon stood and shook his head. "I don't think I can listen to this anymore."

"Running off to be with your lover?" Josie snapped and Napoleon froze.

"Excuse me?" Napoleon's voice dropped into the subarctic range. When he addressed his agents like that, many of them, the smart ones, ran for cover.

"Come on, Napoleon, come clean. You and Illya have been thick as thieves for years."

"Why is it two women can have a long, lasting, loving relationship and the world is fine with that, but when two men become close friends, tongues start wagging?"

"It's true, isn't it? What people have been saying all along? That you and Illya are more than friends?"

"Yes, we are more than friends. I love Illya the same way I love you or Mom. I see him as my brother, my best friend, a confidant, and an equal. You want a label, pick one of those."

"But I've seen the way you two look at each other when you don't think we're looking."

"And how would that be, sister?"

"Like you want something…more." Josie's face was flame red now, but Napoleon couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment.

"Good nature ribbing is one thing. I never thought I was going to have to defend my choices in my own home to my own sister. " Napoleon stood. "Illya is right; you of all people should be able to see the difference."

It didn't surprise him to see Illya in his usual spot, in front of the window, looking out. His head turned as Napoleon approached and he spoke quietly. "It looks so peaceful and calm, doesn't it? So tranquil, as if ugliness could never taint it and yet it's everywhere, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry about that…"

"You have nothing to apologize for, my friend." Illya smiled. "People are the same everywhere."

"Sadly, I'm afraid so. Do you want to leave?"

"I do not wish to cause further dissention, but my presence here is for you and no one else. I will stay for as long as you wish me to." Illya moved to his suitcase. He flipped it open to pull out a cloth-wrapped parcel. He tugged off the cloth, revealing a Walther, and he sat on the bed.

"You really think you have to arm yourself? Among my own family?"

Illya removed a second similarly-wrapped weapon "You do not know how people can be, Napoleon, the anger and blindness that such a mind frame puts them in. I carry a weapon as much for my own protection as anything else these days. The last time I went home, my two brothers very nearly beat me to death."

"I remember - I thought THRUSH did that to you." Two shoulder holsters followed the guns and Illya tossed one to Napoleon before strapping his own on.

"I wish they had. It would have hurt less. Don't misunderstand me, Napoleon, I love my brothers, but they are not rocket scientists." Illya aimed one of the guns at the floor and pulled the bolt back to check the barrel. "When they heard Papa say that someone needed to beat some sense into me, they took it to mean to literally beat me. So they did, apologizing all the time they were doing it." He offered the gun butt first to Napoleon. "It taught me to be careful, even among friends and family."

"You did get all the brains, didn't you?"

"So it would appear."

"There was something else. An old song that no one seems to get tired of."

"And that would be?"

Napoleon indicated himself and then Illya. "Us…together."

"So, it's not enough that I am a Godless communist, but a homosexual as well?"

"That seems to be the consensus."

"Well, it's hardly a new song. Your family has been singing it for years, as have others." Illya started to check the second weapon, sliding it into the holster at the sound of a knock on their bedroom door and grabbed a light jacket to pull on, hiding the gun.

"Napoleon, can I come in?" Josie's voice filtered through the wood.

Likewise, Napoleon pulled on a jacket to hide his holster and opened the door after his partner's nod. "Yes, Josie, what can I do for you?" He kept his voice neutral.

Hesitantly she entered the room, shifting her gaze uneasily from one man to the other. "I just want to say I'm sorry."

"For what happened downstairs?"

"For what I'm about to ask of you." She half turned back towards the door, as if checking it in case of a need to escape. "Doug won't let the kids come into the house while you're here, Illya." She dropped her gaze to the floor and drew a deep breath. "I'd like them to be able to say good bye to their grandmother…"

Illya nodded towards the door. "I haven't had a chance to pay my respects to your father and I would like very much to do that. Napoleon, would you be good enough to give me directions?"

"Not necessary, I'll take you myself. I could use some fresh air. The air around here stinks." Napoleon stared at his sister until she started shifting uneasily from side to side beneath his glare and then followed after his partner. As he passed, he held up two fingers. "Two hours."

Illya adjusted the collar of his jacket and glanced over at the woman. "Perhaps my trip will be made complete and my car will blow up again.

Napoleon was lining up a shot on the pool table when he happened to glance up at Illya and see a flash of something on his partner's face. It was nothing more than a furrowing of his brow, slight narrowing of his eyes and Napoleon knew something was about to happen. Illya set his bottle of beer aside, freeing his hands.

When Napoleon felt the sudden heat of a body behind him, hands on his waist, the filthy suggestion whispered in his ear, he reacted just as he would have as a field agent. Before the person behind him would even draw a breath, he was pinned down against the pool table with the cue across his throat. "Why don't you play through, partner?" Napoleon said, applying pressure to the stick. "I'm going to sit this one out."

Illya shrugged and began to circle the table. Two of the man's friends started towards them and he shook his head slowly and let his jacket gape open to reveal his shoulder holster. "I wouldn't if I were you." Illya bent to line up his shot. "Six ball in the corner pocket."

"Now do you want to tell me what you're playing at?" Napoleon asked his captive as Illya sank his ball.

"Nothin'; we just heard you were in town and thought we'd have some fun."

"We were quietly playing a game of pool and minding our own business." Napoleon applied just a whisper more pressure to the cue. "What would possess you to bother us?" The man gurgled something and Napoleon leaned closer. "Excuse me?"

"He needs to be able to breathe to answer you, Napoleon," Illya suggested. He sent another ball into a pocket and paused to take a swig of beer.

"Oh, you're right, sorry." Napoleon released the man, who straightened with no little difficulty and rubbed his throat. "Now, why are you bothering us?"

"Doug said a couple commie-loving fairies were in town and he'd make it worth our while to keep you 'entertained'."

"He'd make it worth your while. Imagine, my own brother-in-law saying such things, Illya." One of Friendly's friends hazarded a step closer.

"Some people have a death wish. I'm just amazed he has the ability to articulate full sentences with his head as far up his ass as it is." Illya took another shot, scooping up a ball and suddenly throwing it. It bounced sharply against the wall next to the mobile friend and flew back to Illya. He caught it one handed. "You know where this is going next." The man hastily sat down.

"I think that you need to go have a little chat with Dougie." Napoleon adjusted the man's jacket, brushing wrinkles out of his lapels. "I think he needs to know how unimpressed I am with his little attempt at amusement." Napoleon slammed the pool cue against the edge of the table, splintering it and held it up to the man's face. "And I think you need to know just immensely unhappy I am with your little demonstration of poor judgment."

"I wouldn't, Napoleon." Illya said, dropping the last ball into a corner pocket.

"Why's that, partner?"

"It's always better to take the high road in such cases and I hear a police siren approaching." He straightened and set the cue aside. "You hit him and he has just cause to have you arrested. Now you can have him for assault. Or even better, solicitation, as he approached you and you have witnesses to prove it."

"Smart Russian." Napoleon tossed the remains of his stick onto the table and pushed the man away from him.

"Experienced bar room brawler," Illya amended, as a state trooper entered and approached them.

Napoleon preceded him into the farmhouse, eyes sparking with anger, and slammed to a stop at the sight of his sister and niece sitting at the table drinking coffee, as if it was just an ordinary day. Napoleon pointed to his sister and then to the door.

"We need to talk," he ground out. "Now!"

Helena smiled hesitantly and immediately stood. "I'll just be going now," she mumbled quickly. She glanced over at Illya as he entered carrying two grocery bags, but instantly refocused her eyes onto the floor and hurried out.

"We can't leave Mama alone. The day nurse just went to the hospital on a call."

"Illya's here. He's a fully trained medic, among other things." Napoleon took his sister's elbow with no little force and propelled her to the door.

Illya set the bags on the counter and began to unload them. He wasn't going to get in between the siblings. He'd had a lifetime of that already. Instead, he concentrated upon the food in his hands, feeling the familiar shapes and textures, his mind beginning to contemplate the best way to serve them. He suspected it would just be the two of them for dinner this evening.

Illya was doing a rough cut on some celery when he heard a soft noise from the bedroom. He dumped the celery into the pot and covered it, then turned down the heat. Wiping his hands on a towel, he pushed the curtain aside.

"Katherine, are you all right?"

The old woman nodded briefly and coughed a bit. Illya helped her to sit up and offered her a glass of water, keeping his hand on it to stabilize it. "Something smells good."

"Just a vegetable soup, nothing fancy." He put the glass back on the nightstand. "If you feel up to it, it will be ready soon."

""I've been listening. Napoleon's very angry with his sister," she said without preamble. "She can't accept that you and your work are pretty much his world now. I thought it would be what she wanted – to have Napoleon happy, but she'd rather keep to her narrow-minded path than accept the world as it is. That's her husband's doing. I've watched him change her over the years. Doug is a good man, despite his rather rigid view of the world. He's not easy, but he's worked this farm as if it was his own." She rested her head back. "He deserves it."

"I'm sure Napoleon understands that. I was always under the impression that the farm would go to Josie and her family."

"At Napoleon's discretion. He's our executor, it's all up to him who gets what. Father was rather old fashioned that way. Illya, Napoleon might not know this, but the will is in the roll top desk. There's a little latch towards the back of the top right shelf. It opens to reveal a small hidden cubbyhole. The will is in there. Our lawyer also has a copy. His card is by the phone."

_As are a hundred other business cards_, but Illya left that unsaid. Instead he nodded. "I understand."

"Help him make the right decisions, dear. He respects and trusts you more than anyone else in his life. He'll listen to your counsel."

"I promise." Illya kissed her cheek and smiled. He glanced around the room , seeing it for the first time in the sunlight, his eye catching on a guitar. It was propped up in a corner, surrounded by a lifetime of other items. Katherine followed his gaze and sighed.

"Father used to serenade me all the time when we were young. People think Napoleon gets his musical talent from me, but it's really his father."

Illya stood and retrieved the instrument. He ran his fingers over the strings and frowned. "It's badly out of tune." He reseated himself and began to adjust the strings.

"Well, it's been a few years since I was young, my sweet, or serenaded," Katherine said, smiling sadly. "Could you play something for me?"

"Certainly, have you any requests?"

"Something that would make Napoleon smile again."

Illya continued to pluck the strings for a moment and thought. After a moment, he began to strum and sing softly,

_I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore  
If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before  
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing  
cause everyone listens when I start to sing  
I'm so grateful and proud  
All I want is to sing it out loud_

So I say  
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing  
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing  
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty  
What would life be?  
Without a song or a dance what are we?  
So I say thank you for the music  
For giving it to me

Walking quickly, Napoleon led the way down the porch, through the wood shed and out into the back pasture, ducking beneath the single rail designed to keep the cows from wandering through and out onto the porch. He could still remember the day one of the cows strolled into the kitchen by mistake.

Josie had to nearly run to keep up with him. Finally he stopped in a spot sheltered from the house by hedges, their spot, the place they would come as children to talk, confide in each other or just take a moment to reflect upon their day. Their parents knew about it, but never sought to interfere or eavesdrop. It was a bit of confidence they demonstrated in their children, permitting them to have their secrets.

"Why, Josie?"

"Why what, Napoleon?"

"It's bad enough that your husband had to get together a few of his friends to try to roll us in a bar. That's a very bad idea, by the way, considering Illya is armed and isn't feeling very amused at the moment. What's the point, Josephine? What is your husband trying to prove?"

"He wants you to leave…with Illya, before he corrupts the children."

"Doug doesn't know me very well, does he? I will leave when my business is finished and not before. It's my mother in there too, not just yours." He took a step away from her, his eyes cold and hard. "And believe me when I am finished, I won't be back. Not here, not again."

"This is your home, Napoleon. It's not his. You belong here, he doesn't. He belongs with his own kind."

Napoleon took a step away from her, watching the sun start to dip behind a vibrantly green hill. "So, so many times we have laid our lives on the line for people just like you. So many times I held him, not knowing if his next breath would be his last, feeling his blood trickle through my fingers, just so pompous asses like you and Doug could make declarations of who is and isn't worthy in your eyes." He stopped and shook his head. "Do you know why you never see me without a shirt?"

If the change in topic threw the woman, she covered it well. "I just figured you were..um…I guess, modest."

"I look like Frankenstein's monster. I've been shot, knifed, bull whipped, beaten, all in the name of keeping the world safe for people like you. And for every one of my scars, Illya has three. Why? Because people underestimate him, think he's weak. He never breaks, he never falters and he never stops. Mom and Dad knew that. That's why he's always been welcomed here." He started to walk away and then turned back. "You tell Doug to back off or the next time, Illya will kill him and worse, I'll let him."

He headed back to the farmhouse, rejection and an overall depression dogging at his heels. He opened the door and paused, smiling as he heard the song Illya was singing.

Napoleon closed and locked the door behind him, probably the first time the tumblers had been turned in years. Taking off his jacket, he entered the bedroom and smiled at his mother, trying to rid himself of painful memories. He moved to Katherine and kissed her head. "I'm gone for five minutes and you're moving in on me?"

"If one can't stand the heat, one shouldn't call the kettle black." Illya said, stilling his fingers.

"Napoleon," his mother scolded weakly. "You interrupted."

"Sorry."

Illya caught his arm as he passed, squeezing it firmly. "Are you okay?"

Napoleon squeezed back. "I am now." He sat on the edge of the bed. "So, my Russian troubadour, you going to play something and just sit there holding that guitar?"

"Why don't you take over and I'll finish working on dinner." Illya stood and held up a finger. "The A string is soft."

Napoleon strummed a couple of chords and nodded. "Yes it is. Thanks for the warning."

Illya moved quietly from the bedroom as Napoleon started strumming something, Bach's_Bourée In E minor _it sounded like. There was a tap on the door and Illya glanced over. Helena was standing there, gesturing. He crossed the kitchen quickly and then realized her predicament; the door was locked.

"Sorry, I think that was your uncle," he said, opening it for her. She walked in quickly, closely followed by Cameron, her husband, who was carrying a young child, Winston and an unfamiliar young man. "Can I help you with something?" He wasn't sure how he stood with these young people, but suddenly he found his arms full of Helena.

"I just wanted to say I'm so happy you're here, Illya. It wasn't the same without you." She hugged him hard and then pulled away, self consciously. "And I wanted you to know we don't share Mom and Dad's opinion of you."

Cameron shifted the child and held out a hand, which Illya shook gratefully. "And if Doug can't see what good men you both are, then it's his loss, not yours."

"Thank you, your words mean a lot to me. Who is this then?" He held a hand out to the child.

"This is Cecelia, our youngest daughter," Helena said as the girl turned her face and buried it in her father's shoulder, suddenly shy.

"She's lovely, Helena. You must be very proud." Then Illya turned his attention to Winston. The young man towered over him and his formerly dark brown hair was dyed a shocking near white. "And I'm guessing your parents just love your rebellious nature, Winston."

"You don't know the half of it," Winston said, pulling his friend forward. "This is my boyfriend, Keith." Leaning closer to the young man, he whispered, "Didn't I tell you he had incredible hair?"

"And you just answered a multitude of questions."

Illya glanced over his shoulder towards the bedroom as the music stopped and Napoleon appeared, still holding the guitar. "Winston! How tall are you now?"

"Six-six, last time I checked." He moved forward and hugged his uncle.

Napoleon was obviously surprised, but recovered quickly. "The hair is different, but it looks good on you."

"I was trying to match Illya's but I guess I'd remembered wrong." He pulled out a chair and gestured to it. Keith moved to it, still looking self conscious and uncomfortable.

"No, it's gotten darker as he's aged. The rest of us go gray, he goes brunet."

"I've always gone brunet," Illya murmured, returning to the stove and both Napoleon and Winston laughed.

They sat and talked until dinner was ready and then they ate in the bedroom, surrounding the matriarch of the family. Little Cecelia was obviously delighted to cuddle up to her great grandmother and Napoleon could see his mother's happiness in their just being there. At least here, in this room, the ugliness didn't touch them.

A soft creak brought Illya to instant attention and he lay, unmoving in the bed. His senses kicked into high gear as he cracked open one eye, the one closest to his pillow, and peered out of it. There was a figure steadily approaching the bed and his hand snaked to his gun.

Napoleon's arm was draped over his waist, like a living down comforter, his breath soft against Illya's neck. There would be no real way to alert the man subtly. The figure came to stand by the bed and, in the moonlight, Illya recognized it as Josie.

She was just standing there, staring at them and for a moment Illya wasn't entirely sure if she was sleepwalking or not. Then there was a quiet sound, a half sob and he reached out for the night stand and its lamp. The light flooded the room and Illya blinked painfully for a moment before his eyes adjusted. Napoleon murmured and rolled over, burying his face into a pillow, his back now towards them.

"Josie, what's wrong?"

"Mama said I should never touch either of you if I ever had to wake you." She just kept staring.

"That's correct, yes."

"But I need Napoleon." There was something very wrong with the woman, Illya could see that in the way she stared at him.

"So many scars," Josie murmured and Illya frowned, glancing over at Napoleon. In the lamp light, the whip marks left by Shark glistened as long thin white lines in the moonlight. It had been so long ago he no longer saw their scars. He dropped a hand self consciously to cover one of his own and Josie tracked the movement. "What made that?"

"Bullet."

She pointed to his chest. "And those little ones?"

"Cigarette."

She reached out a finger and tentatively traced a line of scar tissue on his shoulder. "This one?"

"Knife."

"Then what he said was true."

Illya had no idea what she was talking about. He watched her face for a moment and then leaned close to Napoleon's ear. "Napoleon, I need you." That was all Illya had to say; Napoleon was awake and sitting up.

"What?" He took one look at his sister and ventured, "She's gone, isn't she?" There was a sharp nod from Josie and Napoleon opened his arms. Josie was in them and sobbing a heartbeat later. Napoleon rocked her as Illya slid out of the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. He grabbed a shirt and moved from the room quietly, permitting the two their moment of grief.

Barefoot, he walked quickly downstairs. The night nurse, Annie, glanced over at him and shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. Will you make the necessary calls?"

"Already taken care of. Your…Napoleon's mother had prearranged everything. She was unusually efficient and practical about it all."

"She always was." Illya moved past her and to the bed. The body on it no more resembled the woman he knew as Katherine Solo anymore than had the body of his own mother. All that made up Katherine was gone; where was open for debate by people other than himself. All that was left behind was a shell.

He took her hand, cool and paper like, and recited barely remembered words. "_Глубиною мудрости человеколюбно вся строяй / и полезное всем подаваяй, едине Содетелю, / упокой, Господи, душы раб Твоих: / на Тя бо упование возложиша. Тебе и стену и пристанище имамы, / и молитвенницу благоприятну к Богу, "_

"That was beautiful. What did it mean?" Annie asked from her position at the door.

"'O Thou Who with wisdom profound order all things with love, and Who gives to all what is needful, O only Creator, give rest, O Lord, to the souls of Thy servants, for on Thee they have set their hope, our Maker and Builder, and our God. We have thee as a wall and refuge and an intercessor pleasing to God, whom thou didst bear.' It was a prayer my grandmother taught me a long time ago. It seems appropriate." He placed her hand across her chest and kissed her forehead one last time. "Godspeed, Katherine, to wherever your path leads you." He let the tears trickle down his cheeks without shame and walked from the room.

Napoleon sat quietly, staring into his stained coffee cup. All the calls had been made, all the gears set in motion. His mother's body had been retrieved and the house was momentarily silent. Josie had returned to her own home about an hour earlier, leaving just the two of them. Even now, it felt more like just a structure, no longer a home to him.

"Your mother wanted me to tell you that the will is in the roll top desk in a 'secret compartment'," Illya said, making air quotes around the two words. In their line of work, there was no such thing. He poured more hot liquid into both his and Napoleon's cups. "She said that Doug deserved the farm."

"I know…"

Illya recognized the tone. "But?"

"I'm not feeling very charitable at the moment, I guess." The front door slammed open and Doug stood there, his features dark and angry. "Case in point."

"Get out of my house!" Doug shouted, pointing towards the driveway.

"Excuse me?" Napoleon stood slowly. "When did this become your house, Douglas?"

"The minute the old lady kicked the bucket."

"I would advise you to treat Katherine's memory carefully, my friend." Illya's voice was soft, too soft, as he rose slowly, his hands flexing. It sent a chill through Napoleon to hear that tone. He could see the anger starting to build in his partner, spurred on by his own burden of grief. Whatever else you could say about Illya, he did truly love Katherine Solo as much, if not more, than his own mother. An angry Illya was indeed a dangerous thing.

"That was my mother." Napoleon kept his voice tight and Illya took his place at Napoleon's side. If Doug was going to try and take them on, it was going to end badly for him.

"And I think that if you check the conditions of the will, you'll see that I'm executor and sole heir." Napoleon settled a hand on Illya's arm.

"What?" Illya snapped, his eyes never leaving Doug.

"Dad was old-fashioned and he believed that property was should be passed through the male heirs." He hazarded a glance at Illya. "Go get the will, would you, partner?"

"Are you sure?"

"If I need you, I'll yell." He focused his full attention on the man who was more a stranger than a relative now. "I don't know what happened, Doug, but somewhere along the way, things shifted between us. It would be advisable for you to think carefully and choose your words with even more care now."

"It happened the day you took that…that…"

"I would advise you, again, to consider your words carefully. That person for whom you are struggling to find a label is a highly skilled assassin who would like nothing more than for me to step aside and let him do the job for which he was trained."

That was spreading it on a little thick, but Doug didn't know that. Doug gestured and turned from Napoleon, his hands working at his sides.

A moment later, Illya returned and handed Napoleon a sealed packet. He returned to his original position beside Napoleon, his eyes back on the farmer. Doug began to squirm beneath the gaze as Napoleon broke the seal and pulled several sheets of paper out.

"Looks like Dad kept his promise. I'm sole heir – now, I wonder if I'll keep my promise to him…guess we'll let the lawyers fight that one out. Now, I suggest you leave and contemplate your fate for the next few hours while I make up my mind."

For a moment, Napoleon thought Doug might actually take a swing at him, but finally the man turned tail and left.

"That is not a happy man," Illya observed taking and releasing a deep breath. He sat back down at the table. "I think I'll give the car a thorough going over before starting it next time."

"He doesn't know half of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I was lying." Napoleon offered the papers for Illya to read, but he declined. "Mom and Dad split the property three ways."

"Then Doug is inheriting."

"Not Doug. Me, Josie…and you."

"What? Me? You're reading it wrong." Illya snatched the will from him and scanned it. "What would they do that for?"

"Guess they really did see you as a son."

"Amazing." He shook his head. "Amazing, but wrong, Napoleon."

"Are you going to take it up with them?"

"Not directly for a few more years, I hope." Illya handed the will back. "I will, of course, turn over my share of the property to you. It has been in your family for many years and here it deserves to stay. It's not like either of us are going to produce an heir to pass it on to."

"Well, according to those gossip rags my sister is so fond of, where there's a will…"

"Don't even joke about that." He checked his watch. "It's after nine, ready to call the lawyer?"

"If it's what stands between us and home, give me the phone."

THREE WEEKS LATER

Illya sat back from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. It was no good. He needed to stop for the night. Words were starting to run into one another and lines were blurring. When he got this tired, it was pointless to go on. He'd simply have to repeat the work the next day and correct all the mistakes he'd made.

He tucked his glasses away in the breast pocket of his shirt and stretched his back. This was his favorite time in the lab, when everyone else was gone except for a skeleton crew and he could be with his own thoughts, his own company. Making small talk, being constantly interrupted by his techs, and distracted by mountains of paperwork, all which seem to need his signature took away, from his overall job satisfaction, but these quiet times helped remind him why he enjoyed it.

The sound of the door opening caught his attention and he grinned as Napoleon entered. "Your timing is impeccable as always. I was just closing up and thinking about grabbing some dinner."

Napoleon threaded his way through the lab benches and chairs. "I suspected as much when I called your office and was told you hadn't left." He held an envelope out. "I thought you might like this."

Illya accepted it and frowned at the return address. "This is your mother's solicitor."

"Yup." Napoleon sounded happy and rocked gentled on his feet. His grin grew as Illya tore the envelope open and stared, mouth agape, at the check inside.

"There…there must be some mistake."

"No mistake, that's for your share of the farm. Josie and Doug saw fit to buy us out."

"I can't accept this. It's too much. Your sister doesn't have this kind of money."

"They do now. They just had to sell a few head to cover that check." Napoleon smiled, his eyes distant for a moment. "Remember what I used to say about Dad having the most prized diary cows in the country? I wasn't lying, Illya. The farm is worth three times that again. Take it and do something capitalistic with it. That would show them."

"But I desire nothing, Napoleon." Illya swapped out his lab coat for his regular jacket. "I have everything that I need here."

"Then do something you don't need. Take a long vacation. Go to a health spa, pamper yourself for a bit."

"Isn't that a bit _bourgeois_ even for you?" Illya smiled back at him as they started to walk out.

"Nope, in fact, I know a great little place. Very secluded, very quiet, and extremely expensive. Live a little, partner." He punched Illya lightly on the arm. "God knows you've earned it."

"God knows – an interesting choice of words, Mr. Solo. And I think we both have."

"But if I had to do it again, I wouldn't change anything."

"Nothing?"

"Well, that one time in Calcutta…"

"That wasn't my fault."

"If you'd just stopped and asked for directions…"

"I didn't need to. I knew where I was going…" And they wandered down the corridors, still arguing and laughing, content in their friendship and their place in the world, no matter the climate outside. For them, friendship would always win out.


End file.
